Destructive Relations

Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Hayden Hall All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Edited by Sabrina Hutchinson Cover by Cate Ashwood Photo by Edgar Marx (xramragde) Written by Hayden Hall www.haydenhallwrites.com ISBN: 979-8-3778-9831-3 Contents Preface Prologue 1. Levi 2. Parrish 3. Levi 4. Parrish 5. Levi 6. Parrish 7. Levi 8. Parrish 9. Levi 10. Parrish 11. Levi 12. Parrish 13. Parrish 14. Levi 15. Parrish 16. Levi 17. Parrish Epilogue Acknowledgments More Stories From Hayden Hall About Hayden Hall Join my newsletter for a freebie pack. Follow me on Instagram. Check out my website. It's www.haydenhallwrites.com Follow me on Amazon. Preface Thank you for choosing to read Destructive Relations. Before you proceed, please be aware that this story features stepbrothers falling in love, mature content, foul language, and all the fun things you already expect from Hayden Hall. However, Destructive Relations also features light BDSM (specifically, bondage and some dom/sub dynamic between the protagonists). If you're cool with that, read on. Prologue My ears rang while she spoke. At some point in this whole fucking mess, her voice morphed into a high-pitched buzz that filled my head. Her lips kept moving. Sharp lips. Lots of red lipstick. The skin creased around her eyes and the corners of her mouth as she said that she was sorry it came to this. I stopped listening a while ago. Right around the time she said: “I think it’s best for everyone if you move out.” Her husband of seven years crossed his arms over his chest like a club bouncer and gave a grave nod. I didn’t look at him. It amused me to imagine him hyping himself up for the role, taking deep breaths to make his chest appear larger, and frowning at the mirror in search of that unique look of fatherly disappointment. Not that Harold Bartlet was my father. But he sure liked playing the role. “Now, Parrish, you can’t speak like that to your mother,” was his favorite of disappointed dad phrases. That was because he couldn’t meddle too much. I wasn’t his son to school. He had his own offshoot upstairs; the best boy ever created, incapable of doing the wrong thing. Margaret preferred saying things like: “Don’t you dare use that tone with me, young man,” even as I pushed into my twenty-third miserable year. “Parrish?” Margaret’s voice was deep and warm, whereas Harold spoke in a nasal, metallic rasp. This was her calling me back to the present moment. “Parrish, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” “Yeah,” I said, voice oddly dull. “Got it.” Fuck me if I did, I thought. She could have been telling me that the Martians invaded our planet and were heading straight for River Bend to crown her as their queen. How long did it take a person to monologue about throwing their son out of their house before they felt their conscience was clear? “Then you understand why we don’t have a choice in this matter,” she said, not quite asking, but still expecting a reply. “I totally understand,” I said with a sarcastic compassion. “Your hands are tied, Marge.” My sarcasm translated. Harold’s arms dropped by his sides and Margaret’s face hardened. “Don’t be like that. Why are you always like that?” She slurred these words all at once, somehow. This, at last, made me grin. I win, I thought. It was petty for sure, but you had to give the newly homeless guy a break. I’d stopped arguing with Harold and Marge a while ago. When I realized annoying them subtly was so much more enjoyable than shouting the roof off the house, I changed my tactics. Now, they had no idea what to do with me. It hurt Marge on that artificial level where she was expected to be hurting. You know? A weeping mother who didn’t deserve a troublemaker of a son who only ever disgraced the family. Family this, family that. It was always about our family. What a dumb joke. We had never been a family despite their desperate attempts. Harold had known that all along. That was why he couldn’t scold me as often as he would have liked. Oh, there had been an odd occasion now and again when he grabbed me by my arm and dragged me where nobody could hear us, then told me things. Empty threats. Poorly disguised desperate pleas for the sake of my mother. And then, there was Natalie. My little sister. She’d fallen for the story they’d told her. Abandoned by our actual father before she ever got to know him, Natalie had welcomed two new residents into our house. She was just happy to have a bigger family, even if they never could be our family. We had been doing well on our own. We didn’t need our estranged father or his new, hot wife. The three of us had been enough. Or so I’d thought. And finally, there was Levi. Our little stepbrother. Not that he was so little anymore. At eighteen years old, his impression of a spoiled youngest child was no longer excusable. He still lived the geeky, carefree life like he had when he was only eleven. Bubbly, happy to be a part of the family, glad to have a substitute mommy, Levi was a fleeting annoyance in the periphery of my awareness. He was that scream of morning sunshine that woke you up when you were hungover. He was Vivaldi’s Spring played